The Soul of Countess Adrian. Rosa Campbell Praed

Cubison and Professor Viall send their kind regards;

      And I am, yours sincerely,

      Beatrice Brett.

      Lendon despatched a prompt acceptance of Mrs. Walcot Valbry's invitation. He would have liked to write also to Miss Brett, but with characteristic carelessness—or could it be intention? she had omitted to name the locality of their charming rooms. And he did not venture upon addressing her at the house of Mrs. Valbry.

      The cultivation of cheap celebrity is a disease in upper Bohemia, where patrons and patronised, inviters and invitees, have their very being, socially and commercially, in the easily bought advertisement which sells their wares and trumpets them into a third-rate notoriety. Mrs. Walcot Valbry was rich enough to despise paragraphists; nevertheless, paragraphists abounded at her "at Home;" and representative Bohemia—mummers, novelists, poets, artists, dilettanti members of parliament, and sensation-hunting visitants from a more aristocratic sphere, made a brave show in the spacious drawing-rooms. Just outside the most prominent door, Mrs. Walcot Valbry herself, large, bediamonded, with the crisp, abundant white hair and yellow crumpled face familiar to the casual traveller in the parlours of New York hotels, stood, and in an absent manner received her guests.

      As Lendon came on to the landing she was saying, "You are interested in the Viall-Motor?" to a young-old society man, with a tired expression and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, who counter-queried—

      "What is the Viall-Motor?"

      "Well, I did presume you knew that, Sir Donald!" replied the American lady, severely. "The Viall-Motor is—everything. It's science; it's religion; it's Bulwer Lytton's Vrill;" and she shook hands vaguely at the same time with Lendon, adding, "You know Professor Viall and Miss Beatrice Brett, don't you? I needn't present you."

      "Is it the Viall-Motor or the Improvisatrice that brings you here, Lendon?" said the gentleman called Sir Donald, drawing Lendon back into a recess on the other side of the door.

      "Both," returned Lendon, laconically.

      "A combination of science and beauty!" Lendon's eyes roved. "You are looking for her. We are at the wrong door. She is in the inner room, which our hostess guards. By the way, you haven't forgotten that you sup with me at twelve to-night?"

      "Ah!" Lendon had indeed forgotten.

      "Would it be possible to transfer the attraction from here to my house in Eaton Square? Please present me by-and-by."

      "At once if you wish it."

      "No; I am glued to the door till Countess Adrian arrives."

      "Countess Adrian! The lady of the lawsuit?"

      "The lady who has been the victim of a cowardly and infamous husband—yes."

      "But the marriage was declared invalid," said Lendon, thoughtlessly. "Wasn't it the general opinion that Countess Adrian—as she still seems to call herself—was playing a bold game?"

      "Stop!" said Sir Donald, with scarcely a change of inflexion in his apathetic voice. "I had better tell you that Countess Adrian has honoured me by consenting to become my wife."

      "Urquhart! A million pardons. I read the report of the trial in America, and you know what newspapers are there. I spoke as I had no right to speak—on the vaguest impression. How can I prove my regret?"

      "By letting me present you to Countess Adrian when she comes, and by forgetting everything to her disadvantage that you have ever heard," replied Urquhart graciously. "See, there is a rift in the crowd, and if I am not mistaken the Improvisatrice wishes you to pay your respects."

      "Lendon," whispered Phil Bonhote, a young journalist, who at the moment pressed up against him, "if they grow them like this I shall take shares in the Viall-Motor."

      Lendon's heart gave a bound as he suddenly became aware that Beatrice Brett was close to him, that she was smiling seriously at him, and, by an almost unnoticeable movement of her small hand, was beckoning him to approach. His first feeling was a sort of surprise and dazzlement that she was so much more beautiful than even love's memory had painted her. Of course he had never before seen her in evening dress, and her throat and arms were finely formed and had the whiteness—not of marble, but of a stephanotis petal. There was about her a girlish radiance which he had not associated with her on the steamer. Her eyes were alight as if with some secret fire, her golden hair was dressed in a more elaborate fashion; she swayed nervously to and fro a great feather fan, and in the same hand, held with the fan, she carried a bunch of lilies of the valley tied loosely in the American manner with a knot of white ribbon. He found himself wondering seriously what young admirer had sent her the flowers, and then he realised suddenly that he was in love with her—in love with this girl to whom he had only spoken twice before in his life.

      She was quite unembarrassed. She was not in love with him. Oh, no; she was not the sort of girl to fall of a sudden in love with anyone. She was devoted to her art, for one thing. She was at the age, of the temperament, in the mood when art and ambition are consuming passions and allow but little play to any more strictly human emotion. Of course, as indeed he had hinted, she was inclined to be morbid, and she was self-analytical, and cold as a vestal, but yet she had a keen artistic curiosity and she was very sweet and very womanly, though she tried to persuade herself and others that she was an altogether abnormal creature. She was interested in his ardent admiration, and on the whole she was touched and excited and altogether glad to see him once more.

      Somebody stepped up before Lendon and kept her for a moment or two in conversation. There appeared to be a sudden stir and excitement in her neighbourhood, and when Lendon moved eagerly forward, though she smiled again, she made a slight movement as if bidding him wait. He saw that Mrs. Walcot Valbry was holding her hand persuasively and speaking in a low tone as if urging her to comply with some request. Mrs. Valbry was struck by the expression of the girl's eyes and the sweet smile of recognition directed towards some further object, and her look following that of Beatrice encountered Lendon.

      "Ah!" she exclaimed, "here's somebody who knows the people and will tell you it is all for your advantage. Mr. Lendon, we want the weight of your influence. Come along."

      Lendon approached and took Beatrice's hand. "What is my influence required for?" he asked. "Miss Brett, I hope that your cold is quite well."

      "Yes, thank you," she replied frankly. "I told you we should meet here; but you know you haven't got any influence; we don't think alike. If I do what they want, you'd say I am morbid."

      "That unlucky word," said Lendon, "I take it back. I know what Mrs. Walcot Valbry means. Cosway Keele is here, and half-a-dozen of the principal critics. Don't recite unless you are quite sure of yourself, and unless you want to be the talk of the Garrick to-night, and to be in all the society papers of the week."

      "That's what I've been saying to the Professor," said Mrs. Walcot Valbry, "he says she is sure of herself."

      A tall lean gentleman standing by had poked his head forward and was scrutinizing Lendon with interest. "You hear Mr. Lendon's opinion," Mrs. Valbry said; "you see it is important."

      "Very important," he assented, and added interrogatively, "Mr. Lendon?

      "Mr. Lendon is hand-and-glove with the critics. He writes plays himself sometimes, and he designs Cosway Keele's costumes. You two haven't met yet. Why, it's lovely for you to meet here. He's just lovely," she added vaguely, her eyes fixed upon a point halfway between the tall gentleman and the painter, so that it was not directly evident to which she referred.

      "Professor Viall, Mr. Lendon. Professor Viall is Miss Brett's uncle."

      Lendon bowed and shook hands, first with the Professor and then with a small lady beside him, whom the Professor introduced as "My sister, Mrs. Cubison."

      Miss Brett's guardians presented a curious contrast to one another. The Professor was a man of about sixty, with straight iron-grey hair, a very long nose, and an even disproportionately long upper lip and chin. His forehead was high and narrow. His height could not have been less than